“Hey! Wake up!”

A rough voice awoke me from my slumber. Not the wake-up call I would’ve liked, but there was no alternative available. Hence I resisted the appealing call of the soporific shaking and rose from my sleeping place between barrels and crates. The future commander of the recruits, defender of the southern villages, sleeping on the back of a horse cart.

I chuckled at my situation.

The arrival as another piece of luggage might sound bad enough, but this had already been an unplanned luxury. Travel by foot had been Freiherr Houdin’s order, and only Rhoslyn’s quick-witted mediation prevented further embarrassment in front of my new troops. It seemed like she wanted an amicable relationship between the recruits and her mercenaries.

“Already there?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Look for yourself.” An unsympathetic answer as the carriage’s driver returned his gaze towards the front.

I followed suit, and what greeted both of us was the southern fortress against the leprechauns. Or rather, a man-made clearing filled with a few tents. No wall, no mound, no actual buildings. Just a clearing in the woods. So this was the highly decorated southern fortress?

“Not much to it.” The driver laughed at my dumbfounded reaction.

“Seems like it.” I forced a smile before jumping off the carriage. “Anyway. I’ll inspect the surroundings first.”

“Take your time!”

More laughter. Although less taunting and more sympathetic. The laughter an impoverished carriage driver would bestow upon a commander down on his luck. The both of us understood all too well that any position in this fortress wasn’t a chance for glory, but the end of any path.

Houdin saw the farming villages as a buffer zone between the leprechauns and Gladford. And my only task involved rallying the southern farmers so that they would die more effectively. They expected nothing from me, and their overall support made this all too clear.

My only hopes were the willingness of the southern villagers and a cooperation with Rhoslyn’s men. The latter leading to this so-called inspection. Just another excuse to lose as little face as possible. At least I wouldn’t arrive as baggage.

The small procession of horse carts followed an overgrown trail towards the group of tents, but I entered the trees on my right, walking towards the burbling of water and arriving at a small stream. Not enough to stall our enemies for long, but at least a dependable source of fresh water. Maybe even enough to double as a moat.

For now I just sat down on its side and observed the few small fish in it. They zipped and zapped as if playing tag with each other. Another source of fresh food. Furthermore, a more balanced diet than wheat semolina, wheat stew, and wheat bread.

Steps rang out behind me.

“What are you doing here?” A coarse voice soon questioned. “Your kind has no business here.”

My kind? A subconscious glimpse down my clothing. A new leather armor. Without holes, but the same inferior quality as my old one. No doubt about my affiliation and my counterpart made no secrets of his feelings towards the recruits. What a lovely welcome.

Sure enough, the other’s affiliation was just as easy so spot. Polished chain-mail over thick linen, leather bracers, and robust boots with metal fittings. One of his Rhoslyn’s men.

“I’m the new commander of the recruits,” I introduced myself with no fanfare, receiving a raised eyebrow in return. But his standing here was above mine, and there was no need to be pretentious. I would need all the available help. “Rhoslyn gave me this letter for your commander.”

“Oh, the young miss did?” A genuine smile flashed on his weather-beaten face as he unfolded the paper and began to read it. A few glimpses, a hum here and there, and he folded it back together. One curt gesture towards the tents. “Follow me. The commander will want to talk to you.”

“The commander?” I asked, barely keeping pace with the long strides. “You aren’t the commander?”

“I? The commander?” He laughed. “I’m just on guard duty.”

On guard duty? So he was one of the lower ranked members of the mercenary group and still able to read? Unbelievable. Let alone the farmers in the villages, even most of the local merchants in Gladford couldn’t read. Fabien even recommended a job inside a smaller noble’s entourage when he discovered my ability to both read and write.

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A mercenary who could become a noble’s retainer?

But the surprises didn’t stop there.

It might have been my misguided imagination, but I always envisioned mercenaries as a group of battle-hardened ruffians. The medieval version of your everyday school bully who would hit others for lunch money. Or the land version of pirates? A blend of all the unwanted people into one fighting force, kept together by the overwhelming strength of its leader.

But the image in front of me was different.

Following my guide towards the tents, we came across more and more mercenaries. All of them dressed in the same well-kept armor made of chain-mail over the same colored linen. Less a band of drifters and more a well-oiled machine.

“Wait here.” My guide vanished into one tent, leaving me enough time to observe my surroundings.

Disputes and brawls had been everyday occurrences in the recruits’ barracks. But none of that happened here. Every mercenary seemed to fulfill his task in silence. No matter whether it was feeding the horses, cooking, patroling, or training. Nobody screamed at or bragged to others.

This place’s atmosphere was reinforced by the camp itself. All tents were neatly constructed in near-perfect rows, only interrupted by similar looking fireplaces. Regular placed stakes connected by linen ropes created a simple paddock with an orderly mountain of firewood to the side.

The longer I kept looking, the clearer my sentiment became. This didn’t look like a mercenary camp.

“So you are the new commander.” A friendly voice interrupted my thoughts. It belonged to a middle-aged man with short brown hair, a boxer’s nose, and sleepy eyes. The same armor but red linen instead of the usual gray. “The young miss asked me to give you a hand with your recruits while she is away.”

A smile, a handshake, and he led me towards the recruits’ camp.

“Your… men… have their camp slightly away from here. Their behavior led to repeated problems with my men, so we rearranged our camp to allow for a more… peaceful cooperation. Please be assured that we won’t mind a more unified camp should the situation change.” He explained with a grimace. “Our young miss asked me to provide both a horse and a place to train for you. Our daily training begins when the sun is two fingers above the horizon. For the horse, speak with the guard on duty and he’ll allocate you one for the day.”

We left their camp, crosses a meadow, and soon found another camp at the edge of a forest.

“Although I fear you won’t have much time for either with these men,” the commander concluded with a regretful sigh. One short impression later, I couldn’t help but agree. It wasn’t fair to describe both the mercenaries’ encampment and the view in front of me with >camp<.

Tents were scattered crisscross all over the place, with a handful of fireplaces here and there. No rhyme or reason, just placed wherever. No guards or patrols in place, but a muddy pit with a handful of men punching each other to thunderous acclaim. This wasn’t an army camp, but a boy scout camp with no adult supervision. Even a clear meadow would leave a better impression.

Shame boiled my blood. Those men, playing in the mud like children, were my men. The soldiers that would defend the southern villages. The troops that would help me impress Rhoslyn. Fuck this.

“Who is your commander?” My shout silenced the rowdy mass. Although it wasn’t my shout but their glances towards the person beside me. Nobody gave me any attention. Let alone respect.

“That would be me,” an irritated voice sounded from the pit. A lanky man, the filthy leather armor askew on his bones, appeared before us, examined me for a moment, and turned his attention towards the mercenary. “We followed your idiotic rules and kept away. So what do you want?”

“This is a message from Freiherr Houdin,” I answered instead, presenting another letter to him. “After… reorganization… I was named the new commander of the southern fortress and its recruits. The letter contains your new orders.”

He took the letter, turned it in his hands, before dropping it into the mud.

“Can’t read.” He stated as if everything was answered with that. “Down for a fight?”

A fight? What the hell?

“I already conveyed your new orders. From today on you will-”

“Shut up!” The lanky man interrupted. “Will you fight or not? We don’t care for written words and perfumed letter. Fight or leave. We don’t follow weaklings.”

A weakling? I am the weakling? Without our fight in the village, all of you would be dead by now, but I am the weakling? You are the guys who couldn’t even finish your laps during training, but now you want respect? What exactly was this meant to be? A stage play? Stand-up comedy?

Rage sped up my blood flow and sent images through my mind. Those worthless recruits yapping away during training. Master Bernier’s reports about falling morale and deserters. Children playing in the mud. But also other images.

Rhoslyn who gave me a letter filled with support. The villagers who kept training despite sure death in front of them. Even Thea, a farmer girl, showed more mettle when she stayed behind. How could the troops defending the farmers be so much worse than the actual farmers?

This was a joke. Fate laughing, no, fate spitting in my face. The hell Houdin sent me to just to rot in. An empty camp, a clear meadow, even nothing was better than this.

“Go away.” I pressed through my teeth. “Take off your equipment and leave.”

Silence.

“What was that?” The lanky stepped towards me, trying to appear as intimidating as possible. “Do you want to repeat that? Because it sounded like something you couldn’t have -”

“I said take off your equipment and crawl back home.”

“Oooh! So I heard right.” A fake surprise. “Then we should -”

He stopped, his speech interrupted. Not by any words, but by the sound of his decapitated body hitting the grass.

“You heard the words of your commander,” the mercenary roared as he displayed his bloody sword. “Leave your equipment behind and run back home. Anyone who keeps his equipment will be killed. Anyone who tries to revolt will be killed. Now move!”

Rage flashed through the eyes of the other recruits, but a short whistle and an arrow’s impact into a nearby tree quelled all thoughts of resistance. At least half of the mercenaries had gathered in silence on the meadow behind us, their weapons drawn and ready to slaughter.

Did the commander expect this to happen? Both their behavior and my reaction?

“Our young miss was right.” He laughed when he noticed my bewilderment. “This is going to be interesting.”

Hence I became the commander of my own troops and the southern fortress.

No walls, no mound, no actual buildings.

The garrison: one man strong.